The Winchester (and Occasional Angel) UK Road Trip
by EvelynVerityMarsh
Summary: 6x04 - Sam & Dean are in Scotland, having had a productive conversation with Crowley regarding his very burnable bones. The entire negotiation takes roughly 30 seconds & afterwards it seems a waste to go straight home… Or, the Winchesters & Season 6 Cas take the scenic route from John o'Groats to Land's End. Myths & legends come out to play. Cas/Dean. WIP - Ch 4: "No Harry Potter!"
1. John o'Groats to Inverness

**Chapter 1**

 ** _Sunday, 12_ _th_ _September 2010_**

 **Scottish Highlands: John o'Groats to Inverness**

* * *

 **Playlist for the Road: _Immigrant Song,_ by Led Zeppelin**

* * *

 _ **BOBBY** (over the phone): You boys have a safe flight. And try some of the local grub. I hear it's... exotic._

 _ **DEAN** : Oh, definitely. I hear they have an Olive Garden._

 _ **Supernatural: 6x04 – Weekend at Bobby's**_

* * *

Oddly enough, the road trip is Sam's idea. It does not occur to Dean, does not even cross his mind that extended travel without Baby is possible, let alone desirable. What would be the point without the smell of leather and burritos and oil, without the comforting embrace of a large black car as it eats up the miles between where he has been and where he is going? A road trip means wide open roads and the landscape of whichever State he's in today easing its way past the windows to an accompanying soundtrack of _Back in the Saddle_ and _Thunderstruck_ , maybe even _Highway Star_ so long as there is no one else to hear.

Sam, child of the road and the Impala's backseat though he is, has never voluntarily been on a road trip in his life. Dean once spent four days just driving through Texas and had more fun in that time than he could easily remember having either side of watching Cas strike out with a prostitute. He had sampled the local wildlife of Houston and eaten so much barbeque in Austin that he had thrown it all back up again in an alleyway, observed only by two elderly homeless men who had held each other's hands and watched him with professional curiosity. Dean had visited strangely named roadside attractions and always made sure to try the local beer. He had even once considered the various pros and cons of learning how to ride a horse at a cattle ranch that he was passing. Sam had spent the same four days holed up in a shitty motel room outside of Dallas with only a stack of books and his laptop for company. When Dean had returned to collect him, there had been no evidence of a takeout binge nor of a private extravaganza of adult viewing material. It had depressed Dean mightily on his brother's behalf.

So what is Sam doing now, waxing lyrical about libraries and history, about ancient sites and small town pubs in villages that were old before the Mayflower set sail from Southampton on its voyage to the New World? Sam Winchester does not like road trips, so why is he suggesting they take one through England of all places?

"Not England, Dean. Britain."

"Whatever, Sam. Who cares?"

"It makes a difference. We're at the north tip of Scotland here. You might not want to let the locals know you think they're English, not unless you managed to sneak a lot more guns onto that plane than I did."

"Like I said, Sammy, whatever. If you fancy a road trip, you know I'm game, but we can do that back home. See the Grand Canyon. Ping spit-wads at Mount Rushmore and laugh at outraged tourists..."

"Yeah, and that would sound great if I was still thirteen."

"You were never that fun at thirteen."

"Dean, we're in Europe. The UK! Are you really going to pass that up? This is the first time either of us has left the United States!"

"That's not true. Remember when Dad took us to Mexico?"

"Six hours stuck on the wrong side of Border Crossing when I was six does not count as foreign travel."

"Ah. I see the bitchy jetlag is kicking in."

"Don't be a jerk, Dean. Come on, it will be great! It's not as if we're going to get another chance to come back this way, not with the way you are about planes. Let's just take a week. Even Bobby told us that we should. I can do some exploring and I'm sure this country has enough processed food to keep you happy."

Dean stands upon his objections loudly for several more minutes, during which the phrase, "Not without my car," is repeated more than once. It only occurs to Dean to shift his stance when three separate ideas spring out of nowhere to dislodge his comfortable footing upon Impalac devotion.

The first realisation is that large black cars do not generally cross oceans without the aid of either cargo ships or divine, trench coated intervention. Until recently, Dean would have been confident in their ability to call on the latter, but now...? He crushes that line of thought as he has been forcing himself to do for the past month. There is nothing he can do for Cas unless the angel lets him and the viscous panic in his chest does no one any good. No, ship is the only viable way of transporting his car, so unless they are willing to commit a lot more time to this trip than Sam is proposing, Baby cannot join them on this venture.

The second realisation is that Sam is genuinely excited by the prospect of taking a holiday - with him. The thought tightens something in Dean's throat. It sits pleasantly in his belly in a way that he will never admit to, regardless of alcohol consumption. An actual holiday with Sam after a year of believing that his brother was burning, after a year of Dean trying to turn himself into something domesticated and suburban that he now knows he cannot be. Shock. Soullessness. Worrying about what the hell is wrong with Sam and Cas. It has been months since Dean had a moment to catch his breath. Britain may not have made his personal list of _Places to See Before the Apocalypse Kills Us All_ , but surely there are worse places in which Sam could have taken an interest. At least here he speaks the language.

The third (and by far the most compelling) reason for abandoning his vehicular morality is this: Dean would rather face driving on the left side of the road from now until the end of time than be forced to get back on an airplane tonight. Two long flights in less than forty-eight hours? Temporary disloyalty to his car is definitely preferable.

And it is this line of supreme and no doubt faultless logic that finds Dean Winchester maxing out three separate credit cards on cash withdrawals in Inverness, while Sam leans against their rental car and changes their flights from Edinburgh to London Heathrow in two weeks' time.

Dean suspects that it is going to be a long two weeks if Sam has any say in the matter.


	2. Inverness to Loch Ness

**Chapter 2**

 ** _Monday, 13_ _th_ _September 2010_**

 **Scottish Highlands: Inverness to Loch Ness**

* * *

 **Playlist for the Road: _When the Levee Breaks_ , by Led Zeppelin**

* * *

 _BOBBY: They're not like the Loch Ness monster, Dean. Dragons aren't real._

 _ **Supernatural** **: 6x12 - Like a Virgin**_

* * *

Dean awakes and does not know where he is. This is nothing out of the ordinary. An endless parade of backwater towns and faceless motels curls up restlessly inside his skull, dropping into chaos as consciousness lurches groggily into place. This disorientation is generally worse when he has been drinking, but last night exhaustion had caught him before he could finish the bottle of cheap whisky he had bought in Duty Free. He pulls himself upright with a groan and remembers where he is by cracking his head on the sloping ceiling of their attic room.

"Ow," he growls, rubbing hard at the spot. "Fuck."

"Dean?" Sam's voice is the blurred mixture of the half asleep and the abruptly alert. He jerks upright in the other bed and Dean watches in a moment of big brotherly delight as Sam's oversized form ricochets violently off the gabled roof and directly back into his pillow. "Fuck!" Sam seems frozen where he has landed. "Ow!" And then. "It's not funny, Dean!"

* * *

Dean's mood further improves at breakfast. A very few minutes' research last night had taught them that the UK has yet to discover the delights of motels and other oddly themed roadside accommodation. This is perhaps understandable in a country which can be crossed from one end to the other in a single day and with major cities never more than two hours distance. However, the discovery that they would need to innovate had left Dean feeling like a weary traveller who upon returning home finds that his bed has been replaced with a hammock and is left wondering how on earth it operates. This morning, he is now not sure how he has coped for the last three decades of hygiene code violating bedding. The No. 29 Hotel, Inverness might be a little more expensive than he is used to, but the beds are sinfully soft, the water pressure near bruising and as Scott, the aptly named owner, places a second helping of Full Scottish Breakfast in front of him, Dean contemplates moving in for the foreseeable future.

"Dude, seriously, you have got to try the potato things. They're fantastic!" he moans lovingly around full cheeks and grins at Sam's look of revulsion.

"Yeah, thanks, man. You're good," Sam returns his concentration to his unsweetened porridge and the mysteriously procured guidebook he has propped up against the jug of orange juice. "I think they're called tatty scones."

"Whatever they're called..." Dean gestures across the table with a heavenly combination of bacon, beans, tatty, egg, sausage and half a tomato crammed onto the end of his fork. "I say we don't leave Scotland for the next two weeks and just do laps of the Highlands to find the best places that serve griddled, flat, potato things."

Sam's eyes don't leave his bowl. "Let's see how you feel once you've tried the black pudding."

"Yeah, what's up with that? I'm all for doughnuts at breakfast, but putting dessert on the same plate as this lot is just weird."

"Well, give it a go. Must be a reason why this whole country thinks it's a good idea."

"Hmmm." The texture is... "Odd. Kind of meaty. Earthy. That book say what's in it?"

"Oats, fat and pig's blood. Dean? Dean, stop choking. Dean, people are staring."

"Fucking hell, Sammy! You let me put that in my mouth?!"

"You've had worse in there."

"Oh, I am so feeding you to the Loch Ness Monster, bitch."

* * *

The sky over Loch Ness is the blue of storybooks, the scudding clouds plumes of feather white that trail like delicate wings above the hills. Despite this idyllic weather, the opposite shore still contrives to be lost in mist and grayish haze, as if this place simply cannot help but maintain a certain level of dramatic flair. The Winchesters left the tastefully modern Hotel No. 29 behind them in the centre of Inverness less than half an hour ago and Sam has spent the intervening time reading aloud from his guidebook and laptop. Dean has spent most of the same half hour viciously clutching at the steering wheel of their piece of shit rental car and desperately trying to negotiate the wrong side of various tiny country roads.

"So you're saying we're not going to gank Nessie?" he asks, hunching towards the window-screen and sparing only minimal attention away from the main task of not killing them both in a fiery blaze before reaching their destination.

"What would be the point? Like I said, she doesn't seem to be doing any harm. The death toll around here and number of missing people is no higher than the national average." Sam flicks a few pages of his book, happily lost in geekery. "Most people don't actually believe in the Loch Ness Monster and those that do tend to agree that it's some kind of dinosaur, probably a plesiosaur. That's a kind of dinosaur that appeared in the late Triassic period. It gained worldwide oceanic distribution by the Jurassic period. They were wiped out in the Cretaceous–Paleogene extinction event along with most other life on Earth about sixty-six million years ago, but some people think that one or two survived and managed to get themselves trapped in Loch Ness when the land shifted to cut it off from... "

"Okay, okay, Dr Grant. Enough with the palaeontology! So, I'm guessing Nessie's not actually a dinosaur if people like Bobby are interested in it?"

"According to most sources I can find, she's probably a kelpie."

"Isn't that one of those Scottish mermaid things? Might be fun..."

"No, that's selkies and don't even think about it, Dean. Kelpies are water spirits too, but they take on the appearance of horses. They're known for appearing to tired travellers and luring them towards lochs. If a traveller sits on their back, presumably to ride them home, they bolt into the water and eat the human."

"...And you say we _shouldn't_ gank this son of a bitch?"

"Dean, it's not 1886 anymore. When was the last time you were so tired you decided to ride a random horse home?"

"Okay, fair point. So you're saying, Nessie's not worth ganking cause her M.O.'s a century out of date and she hasn't bothered to move with the times? "

"Basically. I'd say we need a lot more evidence of malicious activity before we have justification to march in there and kill a national icon. Besides, we're supposed to be on holiday. If she does become a problem, there are British hunters that will take care of her, not us. Think of this as a nature safari rather than a hunt; we're seeing a wild animal in its natural habitat without actively trying to kill it."

"Seems horribly unnatural to me, but if that's the way you want it, Sam."

"Thanks, Dean. Oh, turn off here. There's a sign for Urquhart Castle."

* * *

They abandon the 2001 Fiat Ceicento in the visitor's car park. Dean's resentment towards its malfunctioning manual gearbox and its attempts to shake dental fillings loose every time it passes fifty miles per hour is such that it is Sam who sends him back to actually lock its two, rusting doors. At least this means that Sam is left to pay their £17 entry fee.

Urquhart Castle is... Dean tries not to be impressed, but it is difficult when standing before the oldest structure that he has ever seen, even in ruin. Perhaps it is more impressive because it _is_ a ruin, defiant in its stubborn refusal to be beaten and levelled by battle or time. Crumbling and sprawling, it is as much a part of the landscape as the pines and the rocks and the sun on the loch. He has never seen a building so at home in its surroundings that nature itself has moulded and bent to embrace the stone, not weathered it to nothing like timber or brick.

Sam has stopped to read a visitors' sign on the history and design of the castle. Dean wanders on ahead, enjoying the warm fall breeze as he crosses the repaired bridge over the dry moat and through the walls that stretch to the empty sky. He passes a mother with two small boys who lean against the wooden railing and giggle as they toss pebbles down to the grass below. It only occurs to Dean then that he himself is a tourist. All that separates him from the other people scattered around the castle is a guidebook, a few packed sandwiches and a camera, and even then... Dean turns back towards the entrance and pulls out his cell phone, snapping a picture of Sam still bent over the information sign, his ridiculous hair gusting about into his eyes and his face. Dean grins to himself then moves on towards the only castle tower still standing. Even as he crests the top of the hill and casts his eyes over the gray-blue of the wide, wide water shimmering below, he is struck by the fact that every visitor who walks this way does this exact same thing. All eyes, hunter and public alike, all eyes turn to Loch Ness and watch for unusual movements beneath the surface. When was the last time Dean Winchester was just the same as everyone else without even trying?

Dean climbs Grant Tower and rapidly decides that he dislikes spiral staircases, or at least the ones built in the 13th Century. Medieval architects clearly had other priorities than ease of use or equality of step size. Perhaps people back then just had really fucked up feet... At least the view when he reaches the top makes the ordeal worthwhile. Green hills roll away from him on every side and even through the mist there is nothing threatening about it, nothing ominous or oppressive about the endless stretch of pine forest as he so often finds back home. The loch is very blue and very still and the air itself tastes cool and calm and old. In the normal run of events, Dean would consider anything over one-hundred years old to be ancient history. Right now, he is leaning against stones that were stuck together by soldiers three hundred years before Columbus sailed for America. Dean breathes deeply and lets his mind wander as he takes in the scene.

His lungs slam shut as his eyes drift to where the foot of the tower brushes the edge of the loch and a glimpse of tan trench coat flutters into view.

For a long second, Dean stares at the figure that stands upon the shore looking up at him, an enigmatic face devoid of expression, but never of emotion. A heartbeat later, Dean is whirling away from the parapet and racing down the stairs, unconscious of any difficulties he may have had in originally ascending them. He rounds a corner out of the castle proper and hurls himself down a steep and grassy slope before skidding to a halt directly in front of Cas.

For a long moment, they stare at each other. It seems to be the way they always meet: Dean being forced to pause and take in all of Cas, blindsided and caught by the suddenness of his appearance. His backwards tie. His faded collar. Unblinking eyes the exact same shade as the rippling loch behind him. Cas stares back, apparently unaware that this is not the normal way in which friends greet each other. If he could learn to ring ahead instead of materialising when least expected, perhaps then Dean could stumble his way through these interactions without initially gaping like a fish. Forcibly, Dean closes his jaw, flexes his fists and demands with as much anger and as little relief as he can muster, "And just where the hell have you been, Asshat?"

It has been weeks since he last saw Cas, weeks of routine prayers going unanswered, of rumours whispering louder and louder that the war in Heaven is going badly, that Raphael is wiping all opponents off the map whilst Purgatory itself seems on the point of splitting open, seeping poison into the world like gangrene from a wound. It has been almost a month since he knew for certain whether Cas was alive or dead and if Dean has deliberately avoided thinking about it, it is only because he has known that there is nothing he can do. Experience has taught him that either Cas will reappear at an inconvenient moment of his own choosing, thereby accidentally enlightening Dean as to his continued metaphysical wellbeing, or someone else will appear and taunt the Winchesters with the angel's death. In either eventuality, Dean has no remaining influence as Heaven's Righteous Man to change events, not unless Cas decides to actually open his mouth and ask his human friends for help. "Seriously, Cas? Can you not get voicemail on angel-prayer-phone? I've been praying. Lots! I know you're busy with _Armageddon: Part Two_ , but how hard would it be to send a text message? Just a line: 'Sorry I can't come out to play today, Dean, but don't worry. I still have my wings attached and I promise I'm not captured or killed or inhaling another _goddamn_ liquor store!'" Dean wrenches his mouth shut as he realises that he is yelling.

No reaction. Cas fails to snap back. His head is tipped to one side and he blinks innocently once before murmuring his familiar, "Hello, Dean."

Dean cannot tell whether to panic or laugh. This patience, this lack of retaliation seems more like the Castiel he knew during Lucifer's rise and less like the grumpy, bastard commander who has appeared looking increasingly hardened and wrecked in recent months. There is something odd going on, but Dean's head has begun to ache too fiercely to try and analyse exactly what is different about his friend. He settles for a, "Hey, Cas."

"I'm not dead," the angel says, proving not for the first time that deadpan humour can be highly effective.

Dean rolls his eyes. "Yeah, thanks for the heads up. Better late than never, I suppose."

Cas takes a step forwards and Dean becomes aware of exactly how close they are standing, toes almost touching on the pebbled shore. Gray-blue eyes stab him even as he flicks his own away, trying to find something else on which to focus. Something strange and indefinable crackles through the air. Something is wrong. "I have missed you, Dean," says Cas in a quiet voice. "I always miss you." The hand which lands on Dean's shoulder is heavy and warm and distinctly not-human. "I don't want to leave again."

It is sudden, like a blow. Such a seemingly tiny statement, yet something cracks inside Dean's head, something vital snapping like a fault line under the last ounce of pressure. A tidal wave is bearing down. Knowledge is threatening to drown him. He has been consciously locking a river away within his core, laughing it off, refusing to acknowledge it for years and now it is free. A gentle brook has become the Mississippi Delta at some point when his attention was distracted. Now the levee has broken and everything he ever felt for Cas is rushing down to reshape anything it can find. "Yeah," he stutters, mind fleeing, mouth dry. "I... We've missed you too, man." He works on coaxing his body backwards, away from the disorienting waves of terrifying freedom. Still, he is so tired of fighting. He wants so badly to surrender to the hand on his shoulder, to the burst dam in his head. "I guess I... we've gotten used to having your face around."

"Dean." Cas sounds bereft as he did not moments before. His face pleads with despair and for an instant Dean is standing again in Detroit, Cas telling him to _'wait for the inevitable blast wave'_ of Sam and the world's destruction. "Please stay with me, Dean." Unlike Detroit, this time Cas' expression is accompanied by fingers which brush and nestle against Dean's jaw, a thumb ghosting tentatively over the arch of his cheek. It is so sharp, so tender that it slips between Dean's ribs and moves his hands to act in reply, grabbing fistfuls of cheap cotton as if this might prevent the angel from disappearing.

Dean struggles for air and tries to sort through the whirling mire inside his head. Loch water is tugging at his boots. He does not know what it is he wants to do. Something is tugging him into an exhausted haze, compelling him to move and to reach. He is leaning, resting his forehead to Cas' as a dense quiet envelops him. "It would be much easier to stay with you if you didn't keep leaving, Cas."

Now that the initial onrush of desire is done, Dean is remembering why he originally barricaded these feelings away. It is not the fact that Castiel is wearing a man's body. It is not even the fact that Cas is an angel. It is only the fact that no matter what Dean does, Castiel will never stay. Along with desire comes a howling, empty maw of loneliness which Dean has beaten back for years as one person after another has left him for fire, for vengeance, for college. It is the same despair that engulfed him as he drove away from Stull Cemetery, Cas promising him _'just more of the same'_ then vanishing into the air, as if life without him or Sam was any kind of ' _freedom'_ that Dean would ever choose.

Dean presses further into Castiel. Closer. Closer. Forward into the angel's personal space and forward again to press his burning face into the warmth of Cas' neck. Loch water at his knees. Closer, eyes the colour of the loch drawing him near. Forward. A rippling heat eases the longing that he has carried inside himself since the day that both Sam and Cas abandoned him in different ways.

"I've been so alone, Dean," whispers Cas in his ear. "Don't leave me. Don't leave me, Dean. You understand me, Dean. You see me. Stay with me, Dean. You know what it is to fail your family, to want without hope, to love ardently and passionately and yet know that nothing will ever come of it. Stay here with me, Dean."

The water of the loch is up past his waist and as Dean wraps himself tight around Castiel it covers his shoulders and begins to lap at his lips. Eyes. Blue eyes. Eyes the same colour as the loch. Pulling him closer. Pulling out the secrets of his soul to where he is forced to see them and deal with them.

"Stay with me," says the creature that looks like Cas. "Please. Stay with me."

Dean casts about through the ache in his skull and the shuddering confusion which tells him that something is badly wrong, something that he needs to fix now. He stares into eyes the same colour of the loch and says the one thing that has always been true: "I never want you to leave, Cas." Eyes the colour of the loch. "You stay with me and I'll stay with you."

Cas' mouth stretches wild and feral with joy and Dean leans in the final inch to taste that smile against his lips. Water closes over his head and rushes into his lungs.


	3. Loch Ness

**Chapter 3**

 ** _Monday, 13_ _th_ _September 2010_**

 **Scottish Highlands: Loch Ness**

* * *

 **Playlist for the Road : _Babe, I'm Going to Leave You_ , by Led Zeppelin**

* * *

 _ **DEAN** : That's pretty nice timing, Cas._

 _ **Supernatural** **: 5x04 - The End**_

* * *

It is dark beneath the surface of the loch. Weak beams of greenish light angle down for a handful of feet, but are swallowed up by inky black below. It closes tight around Dean's skull. They are moving fast, the fading sunlight receding more quickly than it should as he is pulled deeper into the crushing weight of blindness. Terror is starting to tug at him, pain curling deep within his throat, lungs fluttering desperately for something other than the dense liquid filling them heavy and hard. He cannot move… but surely that's okay. He needs air… but he should get it soon. He is drowning, yet he is sure that he is safe. He will not fight the grip which holds him still and close. The clutch around his waist is safe. He is sinking and blind and crushed and beginning to scream more water into his lungs, but he will not, cannot fight against those fingers.

But, then there is light.

Clean, pure light more vivid than sunlight billows around them and a blast rocks them both, sends them spinning and wheeling through a wide, empty space filled with nothing above and below but endless murk. The light grows brighter and blinding. The creature that looks like Cas bears sharp and jagged teeth at something over Dean's shoulder, the sure hold at his waist becoming scrabbling and desperate. It fumbles. It slips and Dean has a single clear-headed moment to kick out violently towards the rapidly retreating creature. Then a familiar, implacable arm wraps hard around his chest from behind and grips his shoulder tight.

"Dean?" There is no intervening space between the depths of the loch and an empty hilltop where he is lowered to the ground. "Dean!"

The blackness at the edge of his vision is growing, not dissipating. Dean opens his mouth, but there is still no air. He is drowning, still drowning. His lungs are full and he is dying with his fingers tearing desperately through the grass at his side.

A head appears to block out his view of the sky and a burning palm slaps hard against his collar bone. Power crashes into Dean. It jolts him like electricity as he turns over and retches up lungfuls of loch. It pours from his mouth and dribbles from his nose as he chokes. He wrenches in squeezed, wheezing breaths then throws up everything he has ever eaten.

After a while, it passes and Dean falls onto his back, shuddering in the grip of adrenalin and the shock of having been forced to reject every particle of liquid not native to himself. His frantic lungs gasp from groaning heaves into deep, cooling breaths, and he squints his eyes open to stare at his saviour.

Cas, the real Castiel, crouches beside him, expression an odd blend of tensed concern and polite curiosity. His hand is resting against Dean's wrist, but he withdraws it courteously as Dean's skin begins to prickle. Dean gapes for several more seconds as his body relaxes into the grass, then manages to croak, "Hey, Cas," despite his abused, protesting throat.

"Hello, Dean." Cas bobs his head in reply, face impassive, eyes fearful. "Apparently your ability to find trouble is unaffected by your crossing state lines and an ocean."

Dean snickers and then drops back into rattling coughs for a time. When he reopens his eyes, Cas' hand is hovering near his shoulder. "Unprovoked attack this time," he wheezes. "We weren't looking for trouble. Trouble found us."

Cas' jaw tenses into an expression which has never boded well for angels or demons or even Dean on his more truculent days. "The creature in the water must be dealt with," he says and Dean wonders how he ever believed that the man by the loch was Castiel. This is Cas: awkward and deadly, understated and matter of fact, his hand still held uncertainly a few inches above Dean's arm, calculating strange human protocols of interaction. It defies mimicry, the outraged guardianship rolling off the angel in protective waves. "Stay here, Dean," he says then vanishes completely. Yes, this is definitely Cas. Dean slams down against the river of desire still raging through his gut, but the defences that the loch-creature decimated are not going to be rebuilt in a matter of minutes.

He scarcely has time to edge further away from the bitter smelling bile his stomach left on the grass when Cas reappears, grappling one-handed with a much weaker man. Freezing grace burns fury-blue from the angel's eyes, but in all other aspects the shifter he throws to the ground could be his reflection. A tan trench coat tangles in its legs as it lands. A stubbled throat swallows and arches as long fingers fly up to protect a dark-haired head. Dean scrambles back and out the way, squelching in his sodden clothes, as Cas kneels down to grab its shirtfront and slam its head against a rock, angel blade materialising beneath the creature's chin. "Speak." Cas' voice has sunk another half octave and strikes like a whip into his doppelgänger's face. "What are you?"

Eerie revulsion ripples through Dean as the creature contorts its mask into a vindictive smile. "I'm you," it says and its voice is Cas' too. The blade presses tighter into its skin and blood trickles down to soak its crumpled tie. It is not Cas. It should not be this hard to watch pain flood its face.

"You're a kelpie," Cas growls. "Your kind has been hibernating for four hundred years. Why awake now to drown a stranger to this land?"

Dean moves closer, watching the kelpie twist Cas' features with an alien look of spite and hate. Then its eyes catch on Dean and spite morphs into yearning. "Please," it cries, stretching out an arm towards him, tears trickling to pool in its lashes. "I'm lonely. I'm so lonely. She's calling us. Mother is calling us, but I cannot go. I'm trapped here all alone and I can't... I can't be alone anymore. Please, Dean, I cannot bear it. Don't..." It trails off into a long, shrieking scream as Cas slams his blade through its shoulder.

"Cas!" Dean grabs his arm to pull him backwards and the angel allows himself to be tugged into a sitting position. It is at times like this, with palpable rage and the pulse of invisible Grace turning the air into heat-haze, that Dean truly believes that his friend commands angelic armies. "Cool it, Cas. I don't think we need to Guantanamo this one."

This statement finally makes Cas tear his glare from the kelpie. "Dean," he grits out between furious confusion, "It tried to kill you."

"Yeah, man, I noticed that too. Just... Just let me do this, okay?" Dean turns back to the kelpie and wishes he could ask it these questions without Cas watching. "Why me?" he asks the creature. "You get thousands of visitors this way every year. What's so special about me? I wasn't hunting you." The creature looks up at him, tears trailing back into its hair, fingers plucking uselessly at the blade still buried through its skin. Dean swallows and tells himself again, this is not Cas. He leans closer over the kelpie's face and repeats. "Why me?"

"Because you're like me," it says.

Dean forces himself not to glance backwards at Cas. "Uh, no," he says and conjures a smirk. "We're nothing alike. I've never shapeshifted or drowned a human. Try again, Angel Face."

"You're alone," it whimpers. "You're alone and exhausted like me. You want and you want, Dean. You turn yourself into what other people desire or expect. You try to make people stay with you, but it's the mask they want, not you. The good, little soldier. The heroic, older brother. The responsible, domesticated, law-abiding father-figure. There is only one person who is different... One person who has seen all the truth of you, who accepts you flawed and broken, just as you are, but that person will never, never stay with you." The creature stares up at him unblinkingly with Cas' face. "I thought that if I gave you him, you might not leave me. That if I were not alone, I might not mind being trapped away from Mother. At least we could be alone together, Dean."

Dean cannot breathe, has no reply. Again, the creature has stopped his lungs, though this time not with water. Its hand inches up to touch his cheek and Dean is so frozen that he does not flinch when Cas' palm shoots out to seize its skull. The creature screams and arcs, light scorching its veins. Fire sears it from inside, burns its way out of perfect blue and stolen eyes until Dean is left staring into dead and hollow sockets.

For a long moment, there is silence on the hill. Dean cannot bring himself to look at Cas, but stays staring down at the corpse that still looks like a friend. "I don't understand," he says quietly, trying to break the appalling calm. "Sam said kelpies are water-horse spirits. How can this thing be a water-horse?"

"A misunderstanding by humans." Dean cannot see Cas' expression and cannot judge his mood by his voice. "Kelpies are spirits that dwell in Scottish lakes. They are distant ancestors to the Shapeshifters in the United States: able to take on any form and to access the thoughts of those around them to make their illusions more convincing. Kelpies lure people into their lochs by appearing as whatever… as whatever their victims desire most." Cas actually trips over his own tongue. Dean wonders if it is possible to asphyxiate from humiliation. "They prey upon tired travellers, therefore they commonly adopted horse forms in the days before automobiles replaced waggons and carriages."

"Right. So…" The awkwardness is thickening, polluting the air between them. "So, you ganked Nessie. That's gotta be a square on Angel Smiting Bingo. How many cultural icons have you zapped now?"

"Four or five if you count the Jabberwock as cultural which personally I don't."

Dean snorts and works up the courage to look at Cas. "Don't knock the monster poems, man. They're the only ones I remember from school."

Cas is not smiling. Cas rarely, truly smiles, but he sometimes comes close when he and Dean are talking. Just now, he looks awful. His brow is creased. His mouth is working as though there is something bitter on his tongue. His eyes are shifting between his doppelganger's corpse and Dean's face with something that looks like dawning horror. "No! Look, man, no. Stop." Dean is not sure what he is going to say, only that he must do something, anything to sweep away the kelpie's revelations before Cas can process the full extent of them, before Cas can run away as far and as fast as his wings will take him. "What that thing said… It's not… I'm not…"

"Dean." It is Cas' _Angel of the Lord_ voice and it cuts Dean off like an uppercut to the jaw. "I have to go. There's been an attack. My soldiers are calling me." His gaze is distant now, fixed at a point on the ground near the kelpie's side.

"What? No, but… But, Cas!"

"Dean, this is not about what I want." He is fierce, immovable, angry. "I have to go. My brothers are dying. I would have thought that you of all people would understand that."

Dean's words, his loud insistence that Cas can just stop for two minutes and speak to him, die in his throat. "Yeah. Yeah, I do get it," he says instead, quiet and chastised. "I'm sorry. I know you're being pulled more ways than a tug of war these days. Cas, you… you know that if there's ever anything Sam or I can do to help, you just need to ask?"

A heartbeat and Cas' brow releases its deep grooves. "Thank you," he mutters, but still refuses to meet Dean's eye.

"So, um…" Dean edges nervously and pulls himself back to his feet. "Any chance you can drop me back to Sam before you flap on out of here? I don't think we're in Inverness-shire anymore."

"Of course." Cas rises to his own feet with impossible grace. Slowly, his eyes move back to Dean, blinking like a man who enters a bright room from the night outside, vision adjusting slowly to the light. "I'll… I'll come back when I can, Dean."

"I know," Dean says and hopes it is true. He holds his friend's gaze and tries not to squirm.

A tap of heavy fingers across his shoulder and Dean is alone once more, standing back atop Grant's Tower as Sam jumps a clean foot in the air and almost trips down the spiral staircase in the midst of his surprise.

"Uh, Dean?" Impressively, Sam sounds only mildly poleaxed as he clutches at the place from where he would normally have pulled a concealed weapon. He seems to take a moment to assess his brother's condition: his sudden reappearance, his general, bedraggled state, then decides upon the most pertinent issue to tackle first. He points at the dripping pool of loch water already coalescing about Dean's feet. "You do realise you'll ruin the leather, getting Dad's jacket soaked that way?"


	4. Glenfinnan, 17m west of Fort William

_I feel like this chapter may need more than one disclaimer…_

 _1) Spoilers for more than one book/film, but no recent ones.  
_ _2) This chapter is long and very conversation heavy. These boys are chatterboxes when they get going! I promise more action and BAMF-ing soon.  
_ _3) Several characters express opinions in this chapter on subjects including, but not limited to literature, history and cultural differences. In each case, it is the opinion of that particular character and is in no way meant to represent the 'correct' view or even my view necessarily. Please take everything with a pinch of salt.  
_ _4) The previous disclaimer is particularly true when it comes to the historical comments in this chapter. I have done SOME reading around, but this area of history is extremely complex, compounded by the fact that it has grown its own air of romance and legend. Don't believe me? Go listen to the Skye Boat Song and Mo Ghile Mear and then try to be objective! I've made one interpretation that works for this story. There are many, many others.  
_ _5) My apologies to Scotland! I'm not Scottish. I have no Scottish contacts I can double check my cultural statements or linguistic fumblings with. I apologise if I have butchered the Highlands accent as badly as I fear. If anybody feels like Scots-checking me I will be eternally grateful. I'm currently using wiktionary and ScotlandWelcomesYou as my language sources.  
_ _6) I think I should just have the previous 5 disclaimers stand as a feature for the rest of this fic. I'll keep moving my grovelling apologies further south with each chapter. ;)_

* * *

 ** _Chapter 4_**

 ** _Monday, 13th September 2010_**

 ** _Scottish Highlands: Glenfinnan, 17 miles west of Fort William_**

* * *

 ** _Playlist for the Road: A Great Day for Freedom, by Pink Floyd_**

* * *

 _ **CHARLIE** : Isn't that the speech from –_

 _ **SAM** : It's the only one he knows._

 _ **SPN: 8x11 – LARP and the Real Girl**_

* * *

"Oh God! Not _Harry Potter_." The viaduct arcs high and pale as courthouse stone through the gold of bracken and old summer grass. Dark hued mountains and jagged peaks lend the land a look of Middle Earth drama that Dean is beginning to suspect might be a common feature of all Highlands' geography. Scotland seems designed for epic quests and to draw zeal from even the most reluctant observer. Regardless, Dean's organ of veneration is currently preoccupied with other, more important matters than the landscape. "How are you such a dork, Sam?"

His traitorous sibling rolls his eyes and utilises his well-practiced, put-upon pout. "You didn't seem to have a problem when I suggested this."

"You said 'film location'." Dean refuses to let Sam treat this detour as anything but unreasonable. "I assumed you meant _Braveheart_ or _Highlander_."

"There's nothing wrong with _Harry Potter_ ," Sam insists. "It's this generation's _Star Wars_."

"You take that back!"

"No." Sam has transferred rapidly from _reasonable_ to _matter of fact_. It is not a good sign for Dean's chances of winning. "They're iconic."

"They're kid's films!"

"And I got the first book when I was a sophomore." Sam's gaze has become vague as he leads them through the verdant fields towards the curving Glenfinann Viaduct. "It was in the library at Lincoln High during that month you and Dad left me at Bobby's."

Dean has a hazy memory of several blazing rows, of Dad flooring it out of Singer's Salvage Yard, of Sam stalking away towards Bobby's front door, ancient rucksack clutched in hand. "Fine, but, Sammy, you're twenty-seven now."

His brother shrugs contentedly. His mind seems fixed on other things, not on age old fights that no one, not even the winner, ever truly won. "Call me nostalgic."

"I'll call you moronic."

"Dean," and there: that tone of voice tells Dean that he has lost. Sam's trump card is going down. "In the last twelve hours, only one of us has eaten pig's blood pudding _and_ somehow gotten mauled by a water-horse that hasn't bothered anyone in over a hundred years. Why don't you just close your mouth and enjoy the scenery?"

Dean feels a flash of guilt. Whilst towelling himself off outside of Urquhart Castle, he had, for Sam's benefit, invented the story of an attack by a monstrously antagonistic, loch-dwelling horse and a _had-to-leave-all-my-guns-in-the-USofA_ prayer to Castiel. He could not tell Sam the truth, of course he could not. What good could come from explaining what Kelpies really are, from being forced to admit what had happened between himself and a monster wearing the skin of an angel? It can make no difference at this point. The stack of lies and omissions between him and Sam is already so large that one more half-truth can hardly tip the scales.

Dean finds a smirk and wraps himself up in the comfortable familiarity of bickering. "You want me to be quiet so you can dream about going to Swine-warts on a big shiny steam train and playing with your magic wand?"

"I'm not touching your 'wand' jokes with a ten foot pole," says Sam with dignity. "I promise, if we ever go somewhere that Vonnegut set a book, I'll sightsee as long as you like."

They walk in companionable silence for several minutes, the viaduct growing taller and more solid against the background hills. As they pass beneath a sculpted arch and begin the steeper climb, Dean takes the time to examine Sam, a subtle side-eye check he perfected in childhood. He is worried, although by now the statement ought to be superfluous; when was the last time he was not worried about Sam? There is nothing on the surface. No tension at Sam's mouth, no wrinkle through his brow. He seems relaxed and calm, his nature quiescent. It pushes Dean to the edge of panic. Sam's mind is never quiet, his head forever caught in the perpetual motion of a single, eternal car crash. If Sam seems normal then Dean has learned that he is lying.

"Why do you like this stuff?" he asks, flopping down onto the grass and squinting into the late afternoon light, glowing over the, actually, very striking view and down towards the distant Loch Shiel. "Harry Potter? Your crappy taste in music is one thing, but books take more effort. It's not like even you would listen to Taylor Swift or that Bieber dick, so why bother with a shitty, kiddie book?"

"Because it's not shit," Sam says, truly earnest now as he joins Dean, perching on a faded tussock. "Kids' books are… they're simpler; they're the way the world is meant to work."

"What, talking hats and flying cars?"

"No, it's… It means more to me now, when I think back on it. I..." Sam fumbles for a moment, then launches himself into a tumble of speech, rushing as if afraid that a pause will cause him to falter and fall. "So Harry? He's corrupted young, as a baby. His mom and dad are murdered and he unknowingly has a piece of Voldemort's soul, a piece of real evil, placed inside him. He grows up to spend his life fighting against evil, but at the same time he's happy to use the corrupted power inside him, while never admitting to himself what it is or the dark places it could take him. At the end of the series, he finds that to kill the Dark Lord he has to sacrifice himself. He chooses to die to save the world... But then he's resurrected. His sacrifice destroys the piece of evil inside of him and he comes back to life clean, purified. He's purified by sacrifice and that's…" Sam stutters to a halt and glances sideways at Dean, red tingeing his neck in a growing blush. "That's how it's supposed to end. It would be really nice if life could end that way too."

Dean can hardly breathe. Something tight is caught in his chest and fear is creeping its way into tremors at his fingers. _That life should end..._ "Sam! Sam, I've told you before: the things you did without your soul, that wasn't yo…"

"Stop." His brother cuts him off, voice flat. "I don't want to hear it."

Dean wants to grip Sam and hold him, but knows it will not help. "You sacrificed everything to get those archangels in the Cage. What you did before and after... It doesn't make you bad, Sammy."

Sam stares away, gaze impervious, shoulders braced against a weight. "It doesn't make me good, Dean."

Dean breathes, eyes clenched shut. He cannot help the explosion when it comes. His fist slams into the ground. "Goddamn it! Why do you do this to yourself? You live inside your own head all the time, Sam. You never _do_ anything, not for fun. You don't drink, you eat healthy. You've started jogging for God's sake and I can't think of the last time you went to the cinema. Have you even tried to get any action in the sack since you got your soul back? All you do is read and kill monsters, like you're punishing yourself, like you have something to prove. You don't let yourself enjoy anything, ever. You just sit and stew in things you've paid for a thousand times over."

"Oh, and that's great advice coming from you! Nightmares, repression, medicating with alcohol: none of _that_ counts as stewing in all the shit _you've_ done." Sam seems to realise that this is an uncalled for blow. He sighs in something akin to apology before continuing more quietly. "I'm not like you, Dean. All that stuff: bars, booze, picking up strangers for the night. There's nothing wrong with it, although perhaps some moderation might be nice in your case..."

Dean tries not to show the effect that Sam's initial sarcasm has had on him and interrupts with what he hopes is a natural sounding, "Pff!"

"...But it doesn't do anything for me. It's overwhelming after a while: all noise and drink and never actually saying something that means anything. I've always been more introverted than you."

"Are you saying you're shy, Sammy?" Dean raises an eyebrow in an expression he may have learned from Cas. "'Cause I don't think anyone's going to buy that one."

"I'm not shy, you dick." This time, Sam does glance at him and his voice sounds more like himself. "I'm just saying that I like to be in control of myself: of where I go, of what I do and who I meet – of what I am outside my head, especially after a year where I've got no idea what I did. I indulge _inside_ my head with books, ideas, imagination, research. _That's_ what I enjoy and there's nothing wrong with it."

Dean opens his mouth to retort, finding this line of reasoning incomprehensible and troubling until a strange thought occurs to him. "You know, I don't think you are Harry Potter. I think you're Montag from _Fahrenheit 451_."

Sam looks torn between an interesting mixture of surprise and trepidation. "I haven't read that Vonnegut novel. Meant to, but haven't got to it yet."

"It's not Vonnegut, bitch!" Dean is on firmer footing now. "It's Ray Bradbury. It's a classic!"

"Well, I still haven't read it."

"Can't believe you're the one that went to college." Dean goes slowly, trying to wrestle the story into a form that will make sense of the idea that seemed so clear a moment before. "The novel's set in this fucking awful future. Books and universities, thinking in general: it's all been banned. America is populated with dumbasses. All the entertainment is mindless, government-approved bullshit and everyone is either chasing a fix or a high or just committing suicide to try and fill the emptiness in their heads. Montag, the main character, is a fireman: one of the guys whose job it is to find and burn books.

"Well, one day, this woman burns herself alive rather than give up her books and Montag decides to steal one and read it. It's like his head comes alive after that. New ideas. Questions. Thinking for himself. It's like a book fills his life with... I don't know... with colour and suddenly he can see how grey and meaningless the rest of the world is. He needs questions and books and ideas about life to… to be alive, I guess," he finishes, somewhat lamely. He fights the urge to fidget, self-conscious at such a long, and for him, literary monologue.

Sam is quiet for a long time and does not look at Dean, staring blankly down at the oddly dreamlike viaduct. At last he says, "I'll have to read that book."

"Yeah. Yeah it's a good one." Dean considers before asking, "Sam, would it help if I was more involved? With stuff you're interested in, I mean. I know I've dragged you to some movies and bars over the years that you've hated. I could read Harry Potter if you wanted."

Sam rounds on Dean, brows drawn together in an expression of stunned disbelief and then breaks into the first proper laugh Dean has heard from him in what feels like years. "No," he says through a toothy grin. "No, you're fine, Dean. From the sound of things, your taste in books is a bit less fantasy and a lot more intellectual than mine."

Dean shrugs. "Okay." He stands up and leaves Sam sprawled on the grass. He clamps a reassuring hand on his brother's shoulder before starting to make his way back down the hill. "We'll be sure to stop by the bookshop in Fort William later on and pick you up some brain food."

He hears another snort and Sam's voice, sounding sincere from behind him. "Thank you, Dean."

* * *

Dean walks in a daze for some time, only peripherally aware that he has stopped by the car in order to arm himself with whiskey from the trunk. It is a good bottle, not his standard gut-rot, acquired from the Ben Nevis Distillery two hours previously when Dean had cited cultural relevancy and Scottish tradition over Sam's reluctance to stop at the roadside attraction. In retrospect, this tour of Potter film locations probably counts as his little brother's revenge. Still, the distillery had been warm and pleasant-smelling. Dean would be prepared to suffer much more than sun and aimless wandering for the steadying presence of the amber-coloured liquid at his side.

The road is silent as he crosses over, making his way along an open, narrow path towards Loch Shiel and a tall stone pillar that points firmly at the sky. Heavy, summer grass is high to either side. Itching fingers twist the bottle cap loose. With the first slide of burning sweetness over his tongue, Dean begins to feel better. He had already been on edge before speaking to Sam, nervous and thrown by his morning's interaction with Cas. 'Humiliation' did not seem an adequate word to describe watching as the angel fled from the mess revealed inside Dean's head. Now Sam's circuitous admission that he sees himself as marred, as polluted and that there is nothing that Dean, with his mindless pursuit of _sensual_ rather than _intellectual_ pleasure, can do to persuade him otherwise. Between one thing and another, this first day of vacation does not feel like it is affording Dean the escapism it promised. He takes another swig of oaken, honeyed coffee, the taste of the whiskey something delicious and thick that deserves a knife and fork.

He reaches the foot of the stone column and finds a low wall surrounding it, very like the old church borders he has already seen in this country. It is clearly a memorial of some kind. At the top stands the figure of a kilted man, facing inland towards the viaduct. Dean gazes up at its vacant face for a moment, but decides to bypass this strange landmark and to make his way to the very edge of the loch, refusing to let one bad experience with Scottish shoreline dampen his fondness for gazing over water.

Then he sees the old woman.

He had thought he was alone, but through the entrance in the stone wall he spies a smartly dressed woman with long, white hair. She kneels at the base of the pillar on hard ground, despite her age. There are white roses in her hand. Dean cannot help but stare; he had assumed that the man on the weathered memorial was a long ago, historic figure, yet the woman's head is bowed with a reverence that Dean has only seen at gravesides.

For a time, everything is still but for the gentle lap of the loch in the breeze, then the woman's voice rings out. "I'm not one of them, ye' know." Her accent is cultured and pure Scotland, rolling and with a calm spark of humour. She turns to where he is stood at the entrance to the ring of stone, her mouth twisted ironically and apparently not at all angry to have found a man staring at her.

Dean wonders if he is about to have his second encounter with the supernatural by a Scottish loch in the space of a single day, but keeps his tone relaxed as he replies, "'Not one of' who?"

"The Jacobites, laddie," she calls and moves to stand. Dean casts aside his suspicions that Selkies may also prove to be human in appearance and makes his way down the short path, taking her elbow and helping the frail-seeming woman to her feet. The bones of her arm feel almost birdlike beneath her suit jacket. "Not that there are many Jacobites left anymore, of course. Were a dying breed when I was wean _[1]_ and now... Well, all that Divine Right of Kings haver _[2]_ seems a wee _[3]_ bit mad. Might be nice to have some Scottish blood on the throne again, but it dinnae _[4]_ seem worth the Scottish blood spilt in the cause, not to me anyway."

Dean blinks and tries to make sense of the words he is unfamiliar with. "You've been at war?" he asks. Her white roses are pale, lying on the steps before a solid doorframe-shape in the monument. "I thought Britain hadn't fought much this century, except the World Wars, Afghanistan and Iraq. I guess Kosovo and the Gulf too."

The woman is tiny, barely reaching his elbow, but Dean feels like a child beneath her gaze. "Oh dear, yer American aren't ye'?" Her cheekbones are high with wrinkles over the top and her laughing, brown eyes take the sting from her words. "Aye, of course. Well, we've had our fair share of wars during my lifetime, even without Vietnam. Britain has lost an empire since Victoria (and quite right too, if ye' ask me) but that dinnae happen without a significant amount of bleeding. Lots of us here in Scotland, we widnae _[5]_ really consider ourselves British, but we still have soldiers in every fight whether we support Independence or not." Dean blinks again under this run of words and cluttered information. "But no, Mr America, I suppose yer right. The Jacobites haven't had much to do with war for a while now."

"Sorry," says Dean as he tries to deduce exactly what he has stumbled across. "I never was much good with history if it didn't involve music, movies or cars. My brother's around here somewhere though. He's much better at this stuff than me, actually listened in school, did his homework."

The dove-like woman smiles up at him and Dean decides that she is probably more eccentric than properly mad or monstrous. "Younger brother?" she asks.

"Yeah..."

"I thought so. I've got a wee sister. In her sixties now, of course, and had her first grandchild last week, but it feels like I raised her more than our maw _[6]_ sometimes. I've never got over the instinct to boast about her to perfect strangers either." She pats his arm and gestures at the open whiskey bottle in his hand with nothing like condemnation in her face. "Looks like you've had a rough day, my boy. Let's see if we can give ye' something that yer brother _doesn't_ know, shall we? The Jacobites I was telling ye' about, they're a product of our civil war days."

"The English Civil War? But that was..."

"Over three hundred years ago. Yer quite right, but other civil wars too. We have long memories; Scotland has spent over a thousand years fighting for proper recognition or independence from the English. The Jacobites are a movement which believe that the current Hanoverian monarchy usurped the rightful heirs to the throne, the Stuarts." She gestures up at the statue of the man atop the column. "This is the Glenfinnan Monument and that up there is Bonnie Prince Charlie: a fool, but no less admirable for that. His family were in exile in Italy when he was born, chased out of England by William of Orange in 1688. They were Catholic and believed firmly in the Divine Right of Kings: that God had chosen them to rule and that deposing them was not only against the law but also against nature and God Himself. Now, young Charles was a clever, wee boy and he decided he was going to win back the throne for his father, a crabbit _[7]_ , argumentative man who dinnae deserve such a loyal son. In 1745, Charles landed in Scotland and quickly found supporters. He raised his father's standard here at Glenfinnan and marched on Edinburgh with his army, then south into Derbyshire as Edinburgh fell and they won battle after battle. But then there was the Battle of Culloden in 1746." She pauses to swallow. Her smile is gone, as if speaking of something that happened to her son, not an ancient prince. "Charles insisted they stand and fight George II's son on a moor, bad land for a battle. His best advisor and commander Lord George Murray was against the idea, but Charles widnae listen, so convinced he had right on his side. They fought on marshy ground in snow and sleet and his men ran with swords into Hanoverian cannons. It was the end of the Jacobite cause. They were butchered. Charles fled. He and Murray never reconciled."

She breathes and looks up into Dean's eyes as if searching for an answer to a question which haunts her. "Why couldn't he have listened to Murray? Why couldn't Murray have found a way to speak so that Charles would have listened? How could two men who had the best interests of their families and countries at heart have come to such a tragic end?"

"I guess it just happens that way sometimes," Dean shrugs, at a loss for what this woman wants to hear. "Just because you're on the same side as someone doesn't mean you agree with what they think they have to do." He remembers Cas torturing a teenage kid, reaching into his chest to find Balthazar's mark upon his soul. He shudders.

"It's no excuse," she says. "Both Charles and Murray: one morally upright man the people loved, the other a brilliant tactician. If they could've listened to one another, if they could've tried to understand and each stopped trying to be more right than the other… They could've won. No matter the odds, if they had worked together and put their friendship first, they could've won."

Dean is silent in reply, wishing his mind did not turn so easily towards Cas.

"Bonnie Prince Charlie was a fool," the woman says again. Her long white hair is tossed free in a strong wind from the loch. It seems strangely at odds with her formal clothes. "I like fools. It's why I leave Charles flowers when I can. Don Quixote, Waverley, our Prince: people with the self-confidence and naivety to believe they can succeed where everyone else has failed. Countries like your America were built by just that kind of fool8, but only when they had love and passion and strategy tied to their idealism."

"I have a friend like that," Dean says at last, slowly. "Stubborn, stupidly determined to do the right thing even when he must know that it's crazy. Won't listen to advice or ask for help. He's... He's like a little kid who _knows best_ going up against the biggest bully in the playground... I bet he could still win though. Like you said, he's your kind of fool. He just needs to realise he doesn't have to do everything by himself."

"Then maybe it's time to speak so he will listen to ye'." The old woman squeezes his arm and looks at him with a face that is still beautiful. "Be a better Murray than Charles had: be his friend and help him see that ye' have to sacrifice to win, but how to avoid sacrificing everything." She pats his hand again, the one with the whiskey bottle still clutched in it, then turns to walk away, out of the stone wall and back towards the main road. Dean wonders if this is what it feels like to have a grandmother give you unexpected advice. He watches her go, then calls after her.

"Ma'am? What's your name?"

She turns back around and smiles again, her back curved with age, but eyes gleaming. "Ma'am? Oh, I do love Americans. So direct, but always so proper. I'm Maìri Campbell, laddie, and it was a pleasure to meet you. You keep yourself well, Mr America." She turns and is gone before Dean can recover from hearing his mother's maiden name or even consider giving her his own name in return.

When Maìri Campbell is little more than a smudge against the background trees, Dean gazes back up at the figure of a long-dead man and takes another mouthful of whisky. He has a speech running through his mind, one he suspects has more to do with his unasked for history lessons than resulting from the film locations he had thought they would be visiting today. He cannot help the picture that formed in his mind: of Cas at the front of an angelic army, all blinding light and righteous fury, standing against the impossible ranks of an archangel. "I see a whole army of my countrymen, here in defiance of tyranny," he mutters under his breath, half amused, half despairing of himself. Like William Wallace, and apparently a prince some hundreds of years later, Cas is the underdog leader in a civil war, heading a small faction that stands no logical chance against an immense, seated power. "You have come to fight as free men, and free men you are. What will you do without freedom? Will you fight? … Fight and you _may_ die. Run and you _will_ live... at least for a while. And dying in your beds many years from now, would you be willing to trade all the days from this day to that for one chance, just one chance, to come back here and tell our enemies that they may take our lives, but they will never take our freedom?"

"That's a good speech." Dean's heart seems to lurch in his chest as he jumps, whirling as his hand flies to the waistband of his jeans in search of an absent gun. Then he sees Cas. "Did you write it, Dean?"

Dean tries not to shout. "Damn it, Cas! Some warning before the heart-attacks would be great." Cas sighs in a way that seems almost human and Dean lets himself grin. "Nah, Mel Gibson's responsible for that particular speech. Crazy fucker, but guy used to be able to give a rousing battle cry when he set his mind to it."

Cas stares at him and Dean is struck with the parallels to this morning, the grey mirror of the loch's still surface behind his friend's back. He pulls away abruptly and throws himself down onto a bench, facing out towards the water. He drinks more whiskey, barely tasting it and deliberately not looking at the angel.

"And whose side would you have been on?" Cas asks, somewhat disconnectedly

"Huh?"

"In the speech you just gave. Would you really give up peace and comfort, the happiness of a domestic life, to help fight for freedom from tyranny?" Cas has not shifted his stance, Dean can tell from the corner of his eye. He is deadly serious, intense in a way that is remarkable even for him.

Dean shrugs one shoulder. "Of course. What else have I spent my life doing?" More whiskey; the bottle is almost half empty. "I don't think I'm made for peace, Cas, not long term. I've tried, but it never works."

"But when you were retired, when you were with Lisa Braeden and her son, you seemed happy then."

"Checked up on me, did you?"

"Once or twice. I didn't want to disturb you."

Dean wants to object, to yell that not seeing him for a whole year had felt like rejection, as if Dean had served his purpose and then been cast aside for something better. Instead, he says, "I wanted to be happy with her. She certainly deserved it after the shit I put her through and I do love that kid, but actually happy? I don't think I was even content, man. Felt more like I was going through the motions of what happy is meant to be, like I was wearing someone else's boots that didn't fit me right. I'm made for hunting. Maybe once I could have had a normal life, but I'm not built for it anymore. I like the Life too much. Sam and I could probably do with a break more often than we get one, but I can't think of anything I'd rather do. What other job lets you fight every day and go to bed knowing that people are freer from danger than if you hadn't bothered?"

"The military might provide similar satisfaction," Cas says reasonably.

"Perhaps," Dean quirks his mouth and tries to lighten the mood, "but it's harder to get good pie and blast AC/DC from classic cars in the army."

"I see." If anything, Cas looks more miserable than he did before. Dean leans forward on the bench, bottle resting between his knees.

"Cas, did I say something wrong?"

"No." Cas does not look at him, but seats himself in an exhausted slump beside Dean. "No, I am concerned I may have made a dreadful mistake several months ago."

Dean edges to the far end of the bench, keeping the space between them, but passes Cas the bottle. "What did you do? Or... _not_ do, I suppose."

"It doesn't matter now." Cas takes a long, smooth swallow of whiskey and Dean experiences the same rush he always feels when the angel drinks. Watching Cas indulge in human things never fails to thrill him with teenager-ish, rebellious delight. "It's too late to change."

"Funny thing to hear," Dean says with a practiced smirk, although beginning to sense that his friend does not wished to be cheered, "coming from a time traveling angel."

"This is not an error time travel could fix." Cas still sounds dejected and Dean shifts topics. If he cannot break the mood which is settling on them, then the least he can do is get some answers.

"How did you find me this morning, Cas?"

"It's not important." Cas pointedly looks away and Dean cannot help but give chase.

"No, it _is_ important. If the angel warding you put on our ribs is broken then Sam and I need to get it fixed. Last thing we need is Raphael deciding to take out the nice, trackable Winchesters."

"That isn't an issue," says Cas, skirting the subject with the skill of a professional ice-dancer. "Your warding is intact. You already know I can hear when you pray to me. I can always locate you that way."

"Fine, fair enough," Dean waves dismissively, lifting back the whiskey from Cas' lax hands, "but I wasn't praying to you this morning. Why would I when I thought..." He takes a fortifying mouthful and scrubs a hand over his lips. "When I thought you were already there."

"It doesn't have to be a formal prayer. It can be a simple desire, perhaps to talk or a... Or a longing." Cas rubs the back of his neck and Dean busies himself with picking at the whiskey label. "Over the last few months I've... I got used to feeling it… A background pull… I have been busy and I've not always been able to be here, but... but it's not unpleasant to know that I'm missed." Dean takes another healthy swallow and feels a bit like dying. "This morning though, that sensation cut off as though a blade had sliced through it. It was so sudden I... I thought you were dead, Dean." And there, Cas looks at him now and whoever said that angels do not feel... It is like being caught in blue amber. One look should not hold so much. "It took me a few moments to locate the last place I had felt you, but then I arrived and..."

"Cas, look," Dean cuts him off, desperate not to hear Cas describe the rest or have his own paltry feelings given air. "What happened this morning... Just... Let's just forget about it. Pretend it never happened. What the Kelpie... What you saw... It's not important, okay?"

"But…" Cas tips his head and stares through Dean as if he is a puzzle the angel wants to solve. "But, Kelpies show what you desire and you want..."

"It doesn't matter what I want," Dean interrupts again, needing to explain himself fully for once. "If I've learned nothing else on this suck-ass day, then I've learned this: - Cas, you're in the middle of a civil war, damn it, and we've still got you running around after us like a nursemaid. I'm not saying that what Bobby, Sam and I are facing with Purgatory and the insane monsters isn't big, but... but I think it's time that you were put first. Raphael is all of our problem, just like Lucifer was, and you shouldn't have to face him alone. God knows, we wouldn't have made it through the first apocalypse without all four of us. It's the only way we've ever solved anything: together."

"Dean." That wide gaze suggests that Cas has found the solution to the human puzzle Dean presents, but that the answer hurts him somehow indefinably.

"Talk to me, man." Dean leans forward slightly. "Tell me what's going on and how we can help."

"Dean, I... I can't explain. Not right now."

"...Okay." Disappointment settles on Dean, but he fights it back, refusing to be put off. "I get it if you can't tell me today, but you have to tell me soon. Sam and I are on vacation for the next two weeks. I need you to tell me what's going on Heaven-wise as soon as we're back on US soil, or before if you like." He hands Cas the bottle again and the angel takes it with absent fingers. "You're one of us now," Cas' eyes widen minutely, but Dean does not give him time to comment, "and the only time things in this family have gotten completely screwed is when we've decided to deal with problems ourselves: run out to make deals with the devil, instead of asking each other for help. Cas, you gotta promise me that if you need anything, you'll come to us first, not some dickbag you can't be a hundred percent sure of, like that slimy bastard Balthazar."

As intended, this last remark breaks the somewhat misty haze over Cas' eyes, causing him to frown instead. "Balthazar can be trusted," he states, as if the fact is irrefutable and Dean shakes his head as Cas swallows more honey-coloured whiskey.

"Trustworthy people do not pawn magical artefacts in exchange for human souls or hoard caches of stolen weapons until you beg." He holds Cas' gaze and refuses to blink first in the ultimately doomed staring match. Dean will always blink first. "Promise me you'll ask us before anyone else."

"Even if there's nothing you can do?" Cas squints at him.

Dean scowls back. "Even if you _think_ there's nothing we can do. Sammy and I are pretty damn resourceful, given half a chance."

Cas seems to consider him for a long time, then takes a final gulp from the near-empty bottle and almost smiles. "In that case, I promise, Dean. If I need help with anything new, then I will seek you out first. You may regret asking this of me before the end of the month."

"Hey, I'm used to that. I'd always rather be deep in shit creek than stood on the bank, wondering what's going on." He feels lighter, as if they have finally had a conversation which achieved more than half-fact and obscuration. It allows him a genuine grin and the freedom to pursue an idea which has been tickling at his mind since last night. "Can I make one more suggestion, Cas?"

"Of course." The angel looks quietly suspicious and, at long last, Dean feels himself settle. Here. Here is the rhythm of their familiar back-and-forth that has been absent for over a year.

"You look like crap," he says baldly.

Cas frowns. "That's an observation, not a suggestion."

"Yeah, but my suggestion is that you need a vacation," Dean says and steals the whiskey back for emphasis. "Sam and I were in desperate need of a break and I think you are too."

Cas looks annoyed as he does when dealing with human fripperies. "Dean, you know I'm bu..."

"Busy. I know," Dean cuts across casually. "I'm not suggesting you run away with us for two weeks, but I'm telling you – you need a vacation. A short one, every now and again. Just drop in and see us when you can. I promise, no more saving me from lake monsters for at least a few days. We can do touristy shit: see the sights, try British pie. You and Sammy can drink High Tea and go book shopping for all I care. Whatever you like."

"I don't have time for that, Dean." Cas still looks irritated, but amusement is creeping in at the edges.

"Well, clearly you do. You're here right now and nothing's blowing up. I know what you're doing in Heaven is important and I know you don't need to sleep or anything, but you'll work much better if you step back every now and again."

"I suppose it might help to remember why I'm fighting." Cas mulls his words over slowly, clearly willing to be persuaded, then nods. "Spending time with humans again… Seeing things from your perspective… Perhaps you're right. I will come when I can."

"Good." Dean cannot help but grin. "We're staying in Fort William at something called a Travelodge tonight and tomorrow morning we're heading down to Edinburgh. You can help me bully Sam into admitting his deeply closeted love for bagpipe music."

"Okay." Cas settles back fully against the bench for the first time, but then turns with drawn together brows. "Let Sam drive this evening."

Dean bridles, surprised and nettled. "Seriously, Cas, the mother hen act doesn't suit you. I haven't had _that_ much to drink."

The scowl intensifies to the point where it seems to have physical weight. "You are well over the legal limit for this country, Dean. Let Sam drive to Fort William or I will heal you back to sobriety right now."

"Fine!" Dean throws his hands up in surrender, too happy with his recent victories over angelic awkwardness to feel any real heat. "Keep your magical paws off. Ikle Sammy can get his heart's desire and drive this once. I dread to think what he'll find to listen to, but should be funny watching him trying to drive on the left."

Cas nods once. "Thank you, Dean," and then there is only blank air where something man-shaped had been before.

Dean sighs, chuckles and pulls himself back to his feet. It is foolish, considering that very little has really changed since he first sat down, but he feels solid at last, as though balance has been restored to some internal gyroscope. He glances up at the Glenfinnan Monument once more and out across Loch Shiel, then goes to find Sam. Before he leaves, he pours the last of the 'Ben Nevis, 10 Years Old Single West Highland' whiskey on the base of the stone column, a libation for the right kind of fools.

* * *

 **Footnotes :**

1 **wean** – (pronounced "Wayne") - child

2 **haver** – silly talk, nonsense/ talking shit " stap yer havering "

3 **wee** – small

4 **dinnae/ dunno** – Don't ("Dinnae dae that!")

5 **widnae** – would not

6 **maw** – mum/mom

7 **crabbit** – bad tempered

8 Yes, I am blatantly stealing from Aaron Sorkin's Newsroomhere, but as Sorkin is also the man who probably pinched the line, "Good writers borrow from other writers. Great writers steal from them outright," I shan't worry too much. ;)

* * *

 **Extra notes :**

Anybody interested in introversion and introverts (and frankly we all _should_ be) or anyone who would like more information on why I decided to portray Sam the way I have, should definitely watch Susan Cain's Ted Talk ' _The Power of Introverts'_ on YouTube. A half to a third of the people on the planet are introverts. Be empowered!

Anyone who wants to see an AWESOME aerial video of the Glenfinnan area should also head to YouTube watch Sky Focus' ' _Glenfinnan Monument, Loch Shiel_ '. Seriously, it has a bagpipe rendition of my favourite classic rock song, 'Baba O'Riley' by The Who. I CANNOT believe this video exists! Sam and I may both have to become closet Red Hot Chili Pipers fans. Don't think we're going to persuade Dean though…

See you guys in Edinburgh!

Place your requests now for things the boys should see & do. You reckon Dean will be pro the battered Mars Bars or very anti? This is the man who championed the croissookie I suppose... ;)


End file.
